Armin Scheiderbauer - Adventures in My Youth

The attack collapsed, and soon riderless horses were chasing over the field. Some cavalrymen managed to turn round and to reach the hollow. Dismounted wounded Cossacks dragged themselves back. Injured horses were lying on the ground and thrashing about, whinnying. Because we had to save ammunition, we ceased fire, and fired no more after the stricken cavalrymen. The main responsibility for our success doubtless belonged to that flak unit. It certainly had rescued us from an uncertain fate. But the episode reminded me of those Cossacks, who with their skirmishing, wore down Napoleon’s Grande Armee on the retreat from Moscow.

Soon after we had evacuated the village as ordered, we passed a herd of cattle. While the animals were grazing on unsuspectingly, the machine-gunner let fly some bullets into the herd. It followed the order that nothing that could sustain life was allowed to fall into enemy hands. Anywhere that could be used for accommodation was to be burnt. Food, weapons, and equipment were to be destroyed, under the name of ‘scorched earth’. That followed the example set by the enemy in 1941.

I was back once again with the unit. After a fortnight during which I had my boots on day and night, my feet were so swollen that I was not able to get the boots off. I had ordered that the Kuchenbulle should bring me a pair of rubber boots and footcloths with the food vehicle. When he brought what I had asked for, the operation could begin. I had feared that the boots would have to be cut off, but things went well. Four men got hold of me, two of them pulled at a boot each and two of them held me by my shoulders and arms. As if they had wanted to pull me into four, they pulled me apart in opposite directions. But it worked, and my swollen filthy limbs were free.

Meanwhile, the autumn had begun. The so-called mud period was imminent. If it was not raining, the days were still hot, but during the night the temperature fell by 20 degrees. We were freezing, and the ‘oldies’ were no longer so easily dried. To warm ourselves we hoped for burning villages. Units operating in the rear saw that the villages to be evacuated were burnt to the ground. Night after night was bright. From the glare of burning settlements we would have been able to recognise our direction of march, even if we had not ourselves possessed maps and compasses. It seemed remarkable that the earth on the road along which we were retreating was burnt. It was not as if we had burned our bridges behind us.

I remember stopping one night in a burning village. While we waited in front of the fire, we dried our feet in the warmth of the glow, and rubbed our hands as a kind of recuperation. It seemed as if a watch fire of Prinz Eugen was warming us and illuminating the scene. For a short time we behaved as if the enemy were not already close behind us. We fancied ourselves in peace and security. All that remained of the entire battalion, officers and men, stood around the burning beams. We stared into the glowing element, smoked, drank schnapps or tea from our field flasks, chatted, or reflected on our forthcoming departure. Wood and straw crackled and the horses of other units snorted uneasily. In the warm air from the fire you breathed in the musty smell of old wood and rotten straw. Only the lime oven with the chimney resisted the fire.

It did not yet rain for days and nights on end, but in fits and starts, and for only hours at a time. But that was enough to swell the streams. Where otherwise the water might have reached to our ankles, we had to wade through fords up to our knees, or up to our bellies. In the twilight I observed a battery crossing. The path led steeply down to the water and just as steeply back up again on the other side. It was time for the gunners to get their horses to give it all they had. With Karacho , as we said at the time, the team of six stormed up the stony path. ‘Gallop!’ was the command. The gunners in the saddle hit at the horses, and those who were sitting on the gun-carriage clung to each other. While the rain spattered on the water of the swollen stream, the dauntless animals dragged the teams with the howitzers through it and up the slope on the other side. It was a kaleidoscope of power and movement that an artist might have been able to fix on paper.

A new platoon leader joined our company for 48 hours. Leutnant Bertram, who was about 40 years old, was a ‘12-ender’, recognisable by the two blue bands. He had only recently been caught by the Heldenklau . That was what the commissions were called who were combing through the home front troops to find men who were capable of serving at the front. He had served in General Meltzer’s company when Meltzer was still a Hauptmann in the 100,000-man Army. But then that was no use to him. His parade-ground snappishness, his dreadful Saxon and his clear air of anxiety cheered us up. As suddenly as he had come he disappeared again for no apparent reason. At that time it was said that the life expectancy of an infantry lieutenant, that is, the time in which he could expect to remain with his unit without being wounded, amounted to 13 days. Leutnant Bertram’s life expectancy had therefore been significantly shorter.

On the evening of 30 September we crossed the Dnieper, which in its upper reaches was a modest river. I climbed down the bank, thirsty. I scooped some up with the hollow of my hand. I had drunk water that tasted of the earth. On the western steeply climbing bank we found a position ready constructed. It proved to be a considerable disadvantage that the trenches ran at a point half way up the incline. There it had been hoped to stabilise the front. The trenches had been drawn in such a way, that blind corners were avoided in the field of fire in front of the position. When we evacuated it in the afternoon the disadvantage of the position became apparent. The enemy had already occupied the opposite bank and had brought some Ratschbums into position. With them they could fire almost directly down into our trench, which we would immediately have to evacuate again. It was a strenuous and exciting operation, to rush uphill in the trench accompanied by the impacts of that unsavoury weapon.

After we reached the top the reason for the sudden order to evacuate became apparent. On the left, to our rear, there were already Russians whom we could see advancing to a bridge. That bridge led over a tributary stream and also had to be crossed by us. As we realised the situation, we ran at the same time as the enemy, racing to see who could reach the bridge first. If the Russians had simply opened fire on us, we would have not reached the bridge alive. But since the enemy did not fire I did not take the trouble to bring the men to a halt. After the experiences of Woropajewo, I thought that to construct the security position on the other side of the bridge would be hard enough in itself. In the event I succeeded, but only with difficulty. My voice was hoarse from shouting commands, and cursing those running away. A portly Obergefreiter claimed he had a bad heart and had to go back. I answered him that he should not be running and had all the more reason to stay where he was, rather than go into the position. Then, when the pursuing Russians received our first aimed rifle fire, they gave up their pursuit and we had quiet until the evening.

During the night we retreated further. The company had loaded its goods on to a horse-drawn vehicle. Machine-guns, ammunition, blankets, and a couple of men with bad feet were loaded on one wagon as they had on previous nights. The little animal, in itself tough and more efficient than our thoroughbred army horses, was nevertheless at the end of its strength. Through deep mud and over bumpy ‘corduroy’ roads it pulled with its last ounce of exertion, urged on by cries, and beaten on by blows from sticks. Then it stopped with quivering flanks and collapsed on its knees. But the Landser , whose load he was helping to carry, did not give up. While one of them spoke to the animal lovingly and kindly in German and Russian, the other was already holding a stick ready to drive it on again. They continued until the horse once again moved forward with the courage and the power of desperation.